


A Jester And A Bard

by Jacenyan



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Dementia, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sad Ending, Sorry Not Sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:41:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27143323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jacenyan/pseuds/Jacenyan
Summary: The last song he could recall was the most memorable of them all.-----------------------------------------------------------I'm really not sorry.
Relationships: Cicero/Male Listener (Elder Scrolls)
Kudos: 9





	A Jester And A Bard

Irozsch slit the bastard's throat. Cut it clean, cut it quick, and left no other trace. Then he snuck far away, where they could not find him, and waited. Watched. Witnessed. The panic of finding the body, the guards unsure on how to solve the murder, and the deterioration of the situation. All across the street, sitting in plain view.

Cicero sat next to him, trying not to lose it as they frantically searched for evidence. He enjoyed the show. They both did. They'd been put through the wringer together and saved the world together. He was truly the only companion that could keep up with Irozsch.

The high elf leaned back and smiled at the man with bright orange-red hair. His little sunset. He sang to him and played his lute. The words rang true about how they felt and thought of one another. Love like a crime. Like an ugly duckling.

A beautiful song about a jester and a bard.

"The jester in that song gets prettier every time you sing it, listener,"Cicero hummed.

Irozsch laughed,"That he does. With each passing day, I am more in awe than the last."

"Truly flattering,"he hummed. Even after all these years, the words said by his listener flustered him,"Now you just need to work on the bard. He is horribly neglected."

"Oh, is he? And how would you describe him, dear jester?"he brought Cicero's hand to his lips,"Inspire me."

To say he was flushed a deeper red than the blood they soaked their lives in was an understatement,"He is as impressive as the tallest of trees. As deep as the Void. As beautiful as the snow. Most of all, he is especially beautiful because he belongs to me."

"You've certainly got a way with words now that all that stress has been taken off your shoulder,"he whispered,"You could sweep me off my feet right now and I wouldn't stop you. The whole hold can watch for all I care."

They exchanged quiet, loving words as the scene of the murder unfolded into another dead end. Another name attributed to the Dark Brotherhood. It felt good. It felt like the glory days when it had been them against everyone else.

But that had been years ago.

Cicero found his first grey hair months ago. Irozsch started getting unsightly wrinkles. Some of these contracts were too much. They could not longer slaughter officials and generals. Life was slowing down but they had each other and these merry memories.

Even as some of them blurred together, they were there. They meant the world to Irozsch. If he forgot, Cicero was quick to remember. It was always the little things that he missed which added life to his story. Their story.

He recalled before the Dawnstar sanctuary was a proper sanctuary. He remembered how awful the tunnel was. How dangerous everything had been. How hurt Cicero had been. Right before Astrid betrayed them. Right before everything blew up in his face.

Cicero reminded him of how hurt he was, something his mind glossed over.

He'd always laugh and shrug it off. He was quite altruistic for an assassin. Heart of Mara, Hand of Sithis. He had been quite prone to putting things off and multitasking, resulting in forgotten quests and hard to remember sequences. The details were unimportant though.

As long as he had Cicero, he had been sure everything would be okay.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Hey, Cicero?"he asked one day at the sanctuary. The jester was abnormally idle, having passed his keeper duties to another,"What is the average lifespan of an imperial?"

"About 80, why?"he asked, playing with his knife, bored out of his skull.

"That's incredibly short,"he murmured, only 300 himself. Quite mid-to-oldish-age for the average Altmer. Cicero was only 30 himself. Their bodies were past their prime but his would give out faster.

Their time was dwindling faster than the listener knew possible.

"That's why we should make the most of it,"he snorted,"Kill time. Kill people. One day I won't be able to. All I'll have is your pretty face fussing of me. Like I'd become the Night Mother. Funny, isn't it?"

"Not really,"he said, squeezing the jester's hand, painfully aware of how fast the man was slipping away from him.

His lifetime was nothing to the mer of Summerset. To them, it was a season of fashion. He closed his eyes, realizing how many moments were spent unfulfilled. Empty. Too many empty spaces where he should be, laughing and tormenting him with his ridiculous jokes.

Then came the second disturbing realization. He could not, for the life of him, remember the faces of Gabriella, Veezara, and Festus. The names were cut into stone in his memory but their faces were a blur of dunmer, argonian, and some kind of man.

"Cicero, tell me who lived in the old sanctuary,"he whispered, voice shrill.

"Hmm? Well obviously us. Nazir and Babette were always around, too, being most agreeable. Gabriella was sympathetic and I miss her. Festus was bitter but he reminded me of my grandfather. Veezara got in the way but I never got to apologize. Arnbjorn was a mutt and Astrid was the harlot who brought disaster on our heads."

Irozsch was breathing hard. How could he forget them? Arnbjorn and Astrid were arguably the most influential people in his life in the worst ways. Regardless, they shouldn't be forgotten. He killed Astrid. Sacrificed her.

Cicero held him,"Are you okay?"

"I forgot about Astrid and Arnbjorn,"he mumbled, breathing still wild,"I-I don't forget important things. They were important."

Cicero rubbed his back, hushing him,"Its just late. You just need to sleep."

"Yeah,"he hummed, letting himself be lead to bed.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The contract was complete. It was easy. A fallen noble who drank too much and didn't pay his debt back. None mourned him nor were surprised. Some were relieved. It'd been a couple years. Irozsch was feeling less and less passionate about these killings.

He was feeling less and less of anything, really.

Cicero noticed and helped without insulting him. Helped him tune back in to reality. Focusing was hard. Even with the cold biting him and the wind tearing at his nerves. Sometimes days passed without warning.

He was running out of time with Cicero and it hurt.

He turned towards the cliff, into the sanctuary and was met with nothing. Just a cliff. It scared him as he almost went face first into the wall. He froze in place, realizing he had no idea where he was.

"Cicero, I'm scared,"he whispered against the wind. Competing. The wind howled, matching the way his very being screamed at this wrongness in front of him.

He looked back and the keeper's face was indescribable. He looked horrified. Cicero held the listener, hands in his hair, and cried. The listener didn't understand why but didn't want to upset him any more than he already had so he didn't ask.

"Its okay,"he sighed,"I probably got distracted and miscounted my steps."

"Yeah,"Cicero said, grabbing his hand,"It should be this way according to the way we came."

The snow fell and it contributed to the despair building up in him. He talked to Cicero about what he remembered. About the good days. About being a hero. The hero.

They reached the door and it asked its famous old question. Familiarity warmed his worried heart and he opened his mouth to speak. Nothing came out. Nothing. He couldn't remember even though he says it so frequently. How long had they been here? Too long to forget.

Cicero answered for him, leading him further into the sanctuary. The listener was falling apart, fast steps headed to the master bedroom before he ran into-into...

He couldn't remember their name but he knew who they were. They asked how the contract went. Gave him payment. The whole time he stared on in horror.

His precious memories were being stolen from him.

He ran to the master bedroom and locked himself in, pulling out a journal and writing like a feverish madman. He felt afraid. He felt lost. He felt like he was going to just disappear. No one could get him to open the door until he was satisfied with his work.

Not even his dear Cicero. His beloved keeper. His beautiful jester.

As an apology, he sang the song of the jester and the bard. He didn't notice his mistakes but Cicero did. The jester wasn't as beautiful in his song that day.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The listener stayed in his room more often than not in the coming years. Writing. Reading. Rewriting. Sometimes he wrote the same things down twice. Sometimes he skipped entire words, forgetting to write them.

Cicero helped when he could. Kept him inside the sanctuary. Accompanied him. The listener could not longer do much for the Brotherhood aside from act as listener, eager to tell whoever was closest when the Night Mother spoke. Before he forgot.

Some days were better than others. A dream of beautiful memories. Sometimes traumatic ones. He revelled in them both all the same. He played the same songs, practicing just to have something to do.

Cicero came up behind him,"You remember to eat?"

"I think so, I feel pretty full,"he said, wanting to smack the man for asking. But he knew he needed to. Needed someone to keep him on track,"Cheesy bread. That was it."

Cicero kissed his neck and sighed,"That was four days ago. Nazir made it to celebrate."

"Celebrate what?"

The jester gasped quietly,"Since the day you killed the emperor and saved the Dark Brotherhood."

"I did that, didn't I?"he asked, confused.

The memories were kinda there. He remembered being a chef for a little. Then a fire. Then a ship. The emperor wore nice clothes but they quickly became his trophy. Where did he put them?

He was sure it had been stress. They were getting less contracts they could complete together. Cicero was falling apart physically. He had a limp. Irozsch couldn't remember when it started but he could remember seeing it. His hair was so grey now but he still had lots of color as well.

His little sunrise.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He woke up in cold sweat and ran out. He ran about the sanctuary, looking and mumbling. Cicero chased him down and held him as he begged. Begged to let him go get water to put out the fire. To save his friends. His home. The Night Mother.

"Astrid's gone,"Cicero said as he looked frantically for her.

"Who is that?"

The jester wanted to scream. Instead he just sighed,"No one important anymore."

It happened again and again until he was doing it without knowing why. Without knowing who to look for. He talked to Nazir and Babette like strangers and told the initiates they looked familiar. Cicero was glad he hadn't been forgotten yet.

Yet.

It dug into him like a knife when he had to help the listener dress, his buttons and hands not existing on friendlier terms. He washed his hair some days, the altmer often forgetting to rub the soap into it before rinsing otherwise.

Then cane their anniversary and the listener forgot.

His heart shattered as he told the listener about their story as if he were someone else.

Then came the song of the jester and the bard. Except the bard was an assassin this time and the jester was no long described in poetry but in repetition. His pretty, pretty, pretty jester.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was hard on Cicero. Years passed with no sign of him getting better. No priest could heal him. No spell either. He was disappearing before the jester's eyes. No longer did the Night Mother speak to him, a new listener appointed out of the silencers.

He couldn't even remember the Night Mother or Sithis, the words clearly distressing him but not ringing any bells.

He rarely talked. Rarely sang for Cicero. When he did, his words were a mess and didn't come out in order. Or they were missing entirely. Skipped. Cicero was introduced to a new madness.

The madness of impending and unstoppable loss.

The listener was completely incapable of taking care of himself. It was disgusting work but it was an effort of love as well. Cicero worked himself almost to the point of exhaustion.

One day, as he washed his hair, careful and quiet, Irozsch looked at him,"Have you seen Cicero? He has bright red hair. I miss him."

Cicero sobbed, unable to continue. Unable to speak. He sobbed and screamed,"I'm right here."

As the listener remembered, he forgot. He forgot he forgot. Entire months passed by in confusion and quiet. When Irozsch did come back to Cicero, it was a moment. A word. A look.

"Cicero loves you,"he whispered one day, giving up on being remembered as Cicero. He was content knowing the listener loved him and missed him.

Contentment was temporary.

"Who?"

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Years passed without a word being said. Cicero felt he was truly keeper again, caring for a living corpse. He had more questions than answers. More broken sentences than actually questions. More silence than even words. The listener was almost completely gone.

He was confused all the time. Always checking his hands as if they changed over the course of several seconds.

Cicero one day, on their long forgotten anniversary, sang to him the song of the jester and the bard. He cried as he sang it. He cried harder as Irozsch hummed along, the last vestige of his memory now a shadow of what it used to be.

Cicero didn't know that was the last day Irozsch had to live. He cried and held him. He screamed and shoved him. A split second reaction of sadness, fear, and anger always melted into confusion. Always.

He left in anger. Hastily for fresh air. The listener, unattended, went to get out of bed and tumbled down the stairs, smashing his skull on the ground. His suffering came to an abrupt end.

Many mourned him as he had been. As the dragonborn. As the listener. As the friend. And, for his beloved jester, as the lover. His burial was outside the sanctuary, next to the door, and they planted nightshade and deathbell on his body.

For years to come, these plants would be telltale signs that this was, in fact, the sanctuary. Even as the door was worn and faded into smoothness with use. Cicero would sit outside, tending to the plants, talking to his sweet listener, asking for forgiveness.

He never received absolution for the dead neither remember nor speak.

**Author's Note:**

> This was heavily inspired by The Caretaker - Everywhere At The End Of Time.


End file.
